


Three Parts Desperation

by KyeShgall



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Het, The Deep Roads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeShgall/pseuds/KyeShgall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost in the Deep Roads, laden with treasure but worn out and hungry, Hawke, Varric, and Anders are desperate. A little fic told in three points of view. (Written by me for the dragon age kink meme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Parts Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Dragon Age universe and all its characters belong to Bioware, of course, and I make no profits.

**Waffles**

Hawke stands in darkness at the brink of an underground chasm and peers down through depths lit here and there by the eerie glow of lyrium. When the vertigo hits her it is sudden, an unexpected punch. And without sparing a glance behind her, she is backing away, spooked in way that's familiar yet inexplicable. She's practically ready to bolt when he catches her. And she's not sure at first if the restraining arm belongs to Varric or to Anders. She only knows it can't be Carver. And that's another punch to the gut, but already she's becoming expert at tamping down on the anguish and guilt that swells with each memory, still too fresh, of a brother lost to the Wardens.

"Well. We won't be going that way." The voice belongs to Anders and it comes from somewhere behind her and off to her left, which means that her dwarven friend is the one who holds her. And if that thought comes with another, albeit smaller burst of vertigo, then Hawke barely notices, because Anders has cast a light that shows more of their immediate surroundings than the faint glow of distant lyrium can make plain. "How far down do you think it goes?" he asks. 

"And what's at the bottom?" Varric releases his hold on Hawke and cranes his neck to get a better view of the gaping cavern that's just made a mess of their chosen escape route. 

"I'd rather not find out," Hawke whispers and glances back down the tunnel they've traveled for half a day at least. She's worn out from days of walking with too little food, too little sleep, and now, bearing a knapsack weighted down with treasure. The blessing of new found wealth may yet be a final curse, particularly if the last band of darkspawn they've slain has friends nearby. 

"Perhaps it's griffons," Anders says with a little more cheer than Hawke can imagine he's actually feeling. "Friendly ones. That want to fly us back to Kirkwall."

"We'll leave the griffon-wrangling to you, Blondie. You're the warden. C'mere, Hawke, let's see where that map went wrong." 

With the map unfolded, Anders tilts his light closer, but Hawke knows it won't do much good. Tantalizingly close to their exit, they were chased off the main roads days ago by a troop of darkspawn with more ogres in tow than even a pair of valiant mages and a sturdy dwarven archer dared take on. They killed what they could and then fled. A tunnel collapsed behind them and now here they are, trapped, relying less on paths marked on paper and more on Anders's warden sense of which way leads up and away from the darkspawn. They are weary. And there's nothing more they can do right now but rest their legs, wash down the last of the dried nug jerky, and steal a few hours' rest before it's time to backtrack and hope for some better luck tomorrow. 

Anders is asleep as soon as his head touches earth. He's too exhausted too even bother with that raggedy pillow he's dragged from his pack every previous night before settling in. But despite her weariness, Hawke can't seem to find sleep's rhythm. The chasm at the end of the tunnel expands in her imagination until it is that same cliff near the altar on Sundermount. Flemeth stands before her, this time entreating her to jump already and spare her friends the trouble of knowing her. It is a waking nightmare born of fright and hunger and too little rest.

She tosses and turns until Varric rescues her from it. He, too, is kept awake by thoughts unpleasant. 

"Do me a favor, Hawke," he says, his voice soft so as not to disturb the much deserved slumber of their third companion. "Help me kill Bartrand. No talking me out of it; I know how you are. When the time comes, I need you to back me up." 

The entreaty settles between them, curled up in a comfortable silence that lasts only as long as it takes Hawke to rise from her bed roll and take a seat beside Varric near the opposite wall of the tunnel. "All right,” she says. “I promise.” Unless they stumble across an exit or a den of fat nugs in the next day or so, she's starting to doubt they'll even live long enough to make it to the surface, never mind to track down a double-crossing brother and slay him in cold blood. “Can I ask a favor of you, then? Unrelated to all that."

Varric waits.

And Hawke knows it's now or never. "I don't want to die down here. But it looks as if... well, we might... And I'd rather not take my leave without a last... er....” She looks down at her hands splotched with dirt that would take more water to scrub than what can be spared at present. She knows full well this may be her last night, her last chance. “What I mean is, it's been a while since I've... had company.  _Intimate company_. And, well...." Awkward words trail off into silence, equally uncomfortable for Hawke, who cringes at her own ineptitude and imagines a great chasm yawning open between them as impassable as the one that's ended their day's journey.

When Varric replies, it isn't a yes, but it's not exactly a no either. It's a soft chuckle, a rasp of breath, and the amused whisper, "Shouldn't you be waking  _him_ up for that?"

In the phosphorescent glow of the lichen she can see him, turning to glance at the sleeping mage.

"But I'm attracted to you." At long last, she's said it. The words are spoken and with that comes relief. 

The feeling is cut short by a shot of anxiety. Varric is silent. And instead of a chasm, Hawke envisions a turmoil of emotion slinking around them like deep stalkers hunting for the first good opening, the first chance to bite. But being indirect has never accomplished much for her. So she goes all in. "Look, are you interested or not?"

"Hawke," he says. "Listen..."

Here it comes, she thinks. And she's already bracing herself for the inevitable rejection.

"I don't know what I am. But don't mistake it for not being interested. It isn't that."

"Oh." She's not sure what his answer means, but she's starting to figure it's the most indecisive rejection she's ever heard of - right up until the point where he leans in quick and close and she can feel his stubble graze her cheek and tickle her chin. His nose is pressed against her. And his lips. And she's kissing him back before she even realizes it's really a kiss. 

**Paragon**

Her hands are wicked. They slip past belt buckles as skillfully as those of any pickpocket rogue. And he's wondering where a mage like her would have picked up this particular skillset. When she slides a hand lower and takes hold of him with just the right ratio of gentle handling to firm encouragement, he knows for sure that these skills were never honed through thieving - except in the very loose sense of pleasures being stolen. And, damn the mind of a storyteller, but he's already plotting out the mishaps and contrivances and building the story of a headstrong Fereldan mage escaping her father's stern gaze and an utterly boring spellcrafting lesson so as not to be late for a tryst with a lover.

Her tongue is what finally snaps his head out of stories and back to the action at hand. Her mouth is on him in a way that brings back those words of hers from moments ago. 

_But I'm attracted to you._

He doubted it before, but believes it now for the first time. Anyone who would taste him like this - groaning quietly in her pleasure despite his grime and the stink of far too many days without a proper bath - anyone who would have him this way would have to be attracted. And a little desperate. But for the right reasons, desperation can be a pretty good thing. 

It's a surprise to him when he mentally tests the idea of returning the favor and realizes he's got zero qualms about licking the grime off of Hawke, too, if it means he can make her come. So he stops her and whispers something about it being her turn first. What he doesn't say is that he'd rather not have his half of this little encounter begin and end with a blow job. He's got one shot here and he knows exactly where he'd rather aim.

Hawke is beneath him when he ducks down, spreading her thighs as he goes. Her hands are in his hair and she's guiding him, but gently, so it's not an imposition. His fingers slide into her and she's wet - sweetly, impossibly so. The running story in his head skips ahead of him to the point of a howling, arching, slick wet human crying Varric's name in a clear note of triumph, loud enough to rouse Anders and summon every darkspawn for half a mile in each direction.  _That_  story ends with an irate dwarf, an unappeased erection, and a gruesome battle that can't possibly end in victory.

So he let's up and gives her a whispered reminder that he knows it feels good, but they can't afford to make much noise. But she's Hawke. Hostile things with blades and hurled projectiles have never needed much excuse to interrupt her when she's pleasantly occupied. She smiles at the warning, aware as well as he that waking a mage companion is the least of their worries. Reassured, he goes back to it. And when the tightness that's building in her is blown apart in a release that sucks at his fingers, she's quiet. Her fingernails bite at his shoulder and scalp, but all without word or moan or cry. And she rests.

A minute later her legs shift, finding their way around his waist and he understands a second time that she really is attracted. She really is. And she wants more of him than simply tongue and fingers. When he enters easily, the feeling is good, but the storyteller is distracted. He's turning her body into words, marking the tale of a dwarf who's just arrived at the first place he's felt welcome since they left the sky behind them weeks ago and trekked down to the blighted roots of the earth. It's a good story, though it still might end in tragedy.

And then Hawke is everything. The stories fall away, slipping from his mind, which is no longer the head he's thinking with. It forfeits all claims, but thankfully, he has sense enough to bite down hard so that when the moment takes him he can heed his own advice and keep it quiet. 

Utterly spent, Varric settles back against the down-stuffed blanket he's come to regard as the worst excuse for a bed that's ever been foisted onto him. He'll have words with the merchant in Hightown who swore it wouldn't lose its loft - provided of course he doesn't end up among all the other rotting corpses they've passed in these festering tunnels. 

Hawke curls up beside him and, using his chest as a pillow, she nuzzles into him, tickling a little. All he can think is that she's dangerously close to an armpit that hasn't been washed well enough for company. But at this point in their travels, Hawke's no rose garden either. He strokes her hair and finds that it's not as greasy as he thought it would be. 

“Thank you,” she whispers and he almost rolls his eyes at that. She really is stuck on this dying in the Deep Roads thing. He can hear the hopelessness in her words.

“Don't thank me, Waffles. We'll do it again sometime. You'll see.” He pats her shoulder to emphasize the point.

“I hope so.”

“Go on,” he whispers, kissing her forehead so she'll know it's really not that he wants to get rid of her. “Get over there and try to get some sleep.” 

He has a feeling that sleeping will be easier without an anxious human snuggling him awake with every toss and turn. Besides, he's pretty sure that Blondie's got enough troubles without having all his dreams of romance shattered. Not that they can keep it a secret forever, provided it keeps happening, which he has to admit, it probably will. But there are times and places for revealing these things. And as Varric is quickly learning, desperate in the Deep Roads is not a very good time or place for  _anything_  except dirty desperate fucking.

One thing is certain, if they do make it back to Kirkwall safely, the only part of this detour that's making it into his notes is the part where Hawke made a promise to help him kill Bartrand. 

**Blondie**

They are closer to the surface, Anders is certain. For the first time in weeks, he wakes feeling rested. The persistent ache behind his eyes has lessened. And even though their path has ended in naught, he knows enough about the winding tunnels that intersect the Deep Roads to be almost certain they've passed a few forks in the road without having noticed. Many passages branch away in darkness, unseen except by those who look for them. The trick will be to figure out which one will take them back to their starting point most directly – because, certainly, a few of them will. That's the thing about these tunnels, they crisscross and dodge, but almost all of them lead back to the main roads eventually. And if they're really lucky, they'll choose one that passes through a small lair of deep stalkers on the way. Sigrun always used to call those scary little guys “emergency food.”

Sigrun would be good company about now. Given the choice between sarcastic dwarven friends, any reasonable man would have to pick the one with some stone sense. Sigrun for Varric - a fair trade, surely. And that only leaves him one question: whom to exchange for Hawke? 

Anders shakes his head. Hawke, Varric - these are his friends, his good friends. He doesn't really want to be rid of them. But he realizes now that he's been relying on both of them to keep his spirits in line – and that's both figurative and literal. Their easy banter helps keep him – and Justice - balanced, but lately his friends have both been prone to silence and to sullen moods. It's dragging the whole party down, but he can hardly blame them. One brother's betrayal, a second brother turned over to the Wardens - these are not easy things. 

He fully expects another miserable day's trek to begin with curt words and bitter glances all around. So it's an odd surprise indeed to hear Hawke giggle. She's barely visible in the dim light, but Anders can see her sitting up on her meager bed and pointing to Varric as she laughs.

“You've lost your hair tie. Varric, you look a mess.”

Instead of grumbling, Varric chuckles. As he searches his pack for a new bit of string, he begins, “Have I ever told you about the wicked demon who stole all the hair ties in Kirkwall...” 

And so a day of storytelling is born. The ghosts of doomed adventurers come back to life to wander the tunnels beside them in search of forgotten treasures and lost loves. Great beasts lurk in the shadows, their wide mouths agape, full of stalagmite teeth, as they lie in wait for unwary prey. They are imaginary, certainly, but no less real for it. And as paths open up before them and a surprised nest of deep stalkers does indeed turn into a filling if not quite palatable meal, Anders has to wonder if stories have more use than he's given them credit for. They can sway hearts and minds and make heroes of ordinary women. Perhaps, with the right set of stories, a manifesto would have impact.

And he knows. Any chance he might have had with Hawke is dead and buried now. But it doesn't matter. It's better this way. He's destined for a purpose - to set the hearts of men and women aflame. A single love would hold him back. 

It is better. This way, it is better. If he repeats it enough the words will mark a true path away from one precipice in darkness and towards yet another. And when the time is right, he will do what must be done. But until that time, there is friendship to follow. There is twist and turn, skirmish and victory, and a path of corpses strung out behind them. And then, at long last when hope is flagging, comes the elated cry of a dwarf and a mage who reach for each other and, together, stumble into the familiar light of a road they're glad to find.


End file.
